A Life in Parentheses

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Yesterday, the hashtag #metoo went viral. A rally cry for
those who have suffered sexual harassment or abuse, social media flooded with
the stark reality of the sheer number of people (mostly women) who have
experienced this horrific injustice.

As Dan and I talked about the hashtag while we got ready for
bed I made the comment, “Almost every woman can make that claim.” That’s crazy,
right? Surely an exaggeration after being swept up in the emotional toll of an
online movement.

It’s not.

I would be hard pressed to find a single one of my women
friends who hasn’t been the subject of unwanted looks, comments, advances, or
touch. Some by strangers, others by people they knew, even trusted and loved. This
is staggering but not surprising anymore. #Metoo has been trending in hushed whispers
and trusted companionship for ages. It’s not new to women. So why has it taken so long for women to speak up?

First, it hasn’t. It’s just taken this long for people to
listen.

Second, the answer to this (offensive, victim blaming)
question is easy.

We as a society have decided that there are a million things
more important than the bodily, spiritual, and emotional safety of our people.
And in doing so we have decided to protect the abuser and not the abused.

We protect them in our education system because we have decided
that game wins and school pride are more important than the human spirit.

We protect them in our churches and cathedrals because we have
decided that appearances and reputation are more important than the holiness of
a person’s intrinsic worth.

We protect them in our entertainment because we have decided
a few hours of amusement and distraction are more important than the shattered
lives littered behind the scenes.

We protect them in our government because we have decided
that money and party lines are more important than the value of human dignity.

We protect them in our communities, neighborhoods, ourhomes
because confrontation is hard and messy and challenging and why rock the boat when
it’s only a very battered, shame filled, broken heart at stake?

We live in a country where a man can PUBLICALLY sexually assault
an unconscious woman—he can literally be caught in the act of sexual assault—and
he will be sentenced to six months in jail. And only serve three.

We live in a country where a politician can brag about his
sexual predatory ways, and remain unapologetic for it, and we will give him more power by electing him to the
highest office in the land.

We live in a country where a football coach can abuse
countless children for years, and
school officials will cover it up for the sake of a solid sports program.

We live in a country where I don’t even have to name names
or post links to the situations above because we all know who they are, and yet
it still isn’t enough.

We place both the blame of the incident AND the burden of
finding a solution at the feet of those who are in desperate need of help. “Why didn’t you speak up sooner?” We don’t get
to be surprised that the abused don’t speak up. We as a nation have given them
too many reasons not to do it. But when they get brave, when a movement sparks
and safety comes in numbers, then for the sake of everything good and holy, pay attention. Don’t write it off, don’t
play dumb, don’t act like it’s someone else’s problem. It’s our collective
problem, our burden to share. And we need all hands on deck to create a
solution.

Monday, July 17, 2017

They are beautiful, smart, miraculous creatures. They're always learning and soaking up information. They give the best, albeit slightly sticky, hugs. Their humor consists mostly of nonsensical knock-knock jokes, but I guarantee you there is nothing funnier on the planet. Their bar for what constitutes as amazing is basement level low. You could put a bow on half an Oreo and they will freak the heck out. They are easy to please and fun to hang around.

Friday, June 16, 2017

I have been a people pleaser my whole life. I genuinely want the people around me to be happy, to be content, to have peace. I want to help cultivate that in their lives, even if in small ways. But I also know that I don’t do well
with tension and conflict, and the easiest way to avoid these things is to make
sure the people around me are happy. I know, it’s super healthy. I don't want people to be disappointed or upset, and I especially don't want them to be disappointed or upset with me. I say yes to
requests before I have time to process what is being asked of me, let alone if I
actually want to do it (or even should
do it). More times than I can count, I've "yes-ed" my way to a too-full plate and an empty cup.

Friday, April 7, 2017

Dan and I were out to dinner a month back, and he asked me
what had been on my heart lately (swoon! Fellas, ask your ladies this often.
Then get comfortable for the next two to ten hours). This party starter was my
response.

“I’m going to die. You’re going to die. What are we doing
with our lives? I’m terrified we’re going to wake up in twenty years and still
be wishing instead of doing. We are so busy busy busy all the time, but what
are we actually doing?”

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

I usually read the above verse and think of all the ways I need to protect my heart from the world. I need to be mindful of the shows I watch, the books I read, the music I put on in the car. I need to be careful of the people I choose to have in my life and the places where I spend my time.

Thursday, September 22, 2016

(For a real-time feel
for this piece, please go pace around the room you’re in, text GIFS about your
emotional state to your significant other, and scour the internet for the idiot
who came up with the term “Baby Blues,” who you know has to be a dude because
no woman who has ever experienced the reeling post-partum months would describe
them as something as patronizing as “Baby Blues.” For added good measure, day
dream about kicking that person in the shins repeatedly.)

I haven’t even begun to write this post yet, and I already
feel awkward and uncomfortable. That’s usually a healthy indicator that I
probably should be talking about the
thing that is making me feel so awkward and uncomfortable, but also who the
heck cares about healthy indicators when I feel so AWKWARD AND UNCOMFORTABLE.

So far, I have managed to write 141 words without any of
those words being the actual thing I’m supposed to be writing about.

159.

160.

This is so much easier. I can count words all day. All day,
son! (I’ve also been watching a lot of New Girl reruns to avoid writing this
post)

Okay, I’m done. Let’s get to it. The fun and exciting world of postpartum depression (PPD)! Or how
I’ve been referring to it in my head for the past 3 months: “WHAT IS THIS
ACTUAL LIVING HELL?”

While I was still pregnant with Teddy, I had really high
hopes for what the days and weeks after his birth would look like. Dan and I have had
serious discussions about this pregnancy being the final one, and I really
wanted to soak in all that new baby goodness one last time. The transition from
two to three kids had been as easy as it gets, so while I was slightly worried
about taking care of four, I wasn’t expecting it to be so completely opposite
of when Matty had been born. For one thing, Matty immediately began trying to
destroy his replacement as baby of the family. Teddy had scratches on his face
from Matty for two solid months. One scratch would heal, and Matty would
replace it with another. It was like Toddler Hunger Games. And that slight
worry I had while pregnant about taking care of four kids, turned into full
blown anxiety as soon as we came home from the hospital.

Our first day home, I told Dan that it felt like we went
from three kids to one hundred kids. Everything was louder and crazier and harder.
So much harder. We kept saying, “This will get better. Everyone is adjusting
now, but soon it will get better.” I was experiencing all the normal roller coaster
feelings birth brings (the ones that make you sob uncontrollably when someone
leaves a pen in their pocket and it ruins a few shirts in the laundry. A
totally random and hypothetical example…). Weeks went by but instead of things
getting better, or even just leveling out, I was feeling worse. I was
overwhelmed all the time. I had serious doubts about my mothering abilities
(the fact that I couldn’t stop one son from trying to beat up the other one did
not help curb this feeling). I worried constantly. I cried a lot. When I wasn't feeling a crushing sense of self hate, I felt numb. I started
having panic attacks. Like, actual chest tightening, can’t breathe properly,
curl into the fetal position panic attacks. I didn’t even know that’s what was
going on at first, I just thought I was losing my mind.

I felt so alone. I didn’t know how to talk about or describe
what I was going through. People would ask how life was going and I’d say vague
things like, “Oh, it’s a little bit crazy right now. But overall it’s fine.” I
used humor to deflect how paralyzed with guilt and shame I felt (healthy coping
mechanisms, y'all). The longer I went without verbalizing my brokenness, the
more isolated I felt. I began to dread going to family get-togethers. There was
more than one Saturday night spent trying to calm myself down because the
thought of going to church the next morning sent waves of anxiety crashing
against my heart. There, I was surrounded by some of the people I love most in
the world, but because of my inability and unwillingness to speak about the
state of my life, I felt completely unknown. It filled me with a deep, heavy
grief.

I couldn’t describe
the depths of what I was experiencing to my own husband. Before we had even put
a name to it, postpartum depression stripped away the ease and confidence normally
shared between us. I felt like a shell of myself, and was convinced that admitting
how much a broken mess I was would change how he viewed me, how attractive he
found me. One morning, Dan put his arms around me and said, “I love you. You
are strong. You will get through
this.” Instead of being comforted like he had intended, I lashed out. “I am not strong and OBVIOUSLY I am not getting through this!” He was
confused and helpless. I was furious and heartbroken. PPD took the short hand talk
of our marriage, and replaced it with two entirely new languages. We couldn’t understand
each other.

That particular moment was a tipping point. It was now
painfully obvious that what I was experiencing was more than adjustments to our
new life, or the “Baby Blues” (again, mentally shin kicking the person who
coined that term). The day after Dan and I fought about the strength of my
spirit, I made an appointment to see a counselor. Three days after that, during
our church picnic, I blurted out to two close friends that I thought I had PPD.
It was one of the most uncomfortable and awkward conversations I’ve ever had,
mainly because I have wonderful friends who don’t just let me off the hook when
things are hard (even when I beg not to talk about it anymore, because I
definitely did that). My village stepped in. I wasn’t immediately better, but I
also wasn’t alone.

I would like to tell you that everything is back to normal;
that I feel completely restored to my former glory (that was a joke. My “former
glory” is just me, covered in baby drool and talking to Dan in Hamilton raps). I’m
not. I’m part way there. I feel more like myself than I have since Teddy was
born (and even before he was born, to be honest. I don’t know if postpartum depression can start before you’re actually postpartum, but looking back I can
see whispers of it all over my last month of pregnancy). There are more good
days than bad, and the really bad days are further and further apart. I see a
counselor every other week and will continue to do so for the foreseeable
future. And even though it all makes me feel so awkward and uncomfortable, I am
trying to commit to speaking PPD’s name, because it loses a little bit more of
its scariness each time I do it.

(If you are experiencing postpartum depression, please seek help. A doctor, a counselor, a pastor, a friend. Don't convince yourself it's not a big deal, don't force yourself to deal with it on your own. Let's be committed together to speaking out and disarming PPD of its power.)

Edited May 2017: If you'd like to hear more about my experience with postpartum depression and anxiety,

I've included links to a 2 part series Dan and I did last year on our podcast,